Dragonfire

Nineteen

It was raining in Mendocino County. I took Highway 101 straight up to Cloverdale, then cut over on 128 through the orchards and vineyards of Anderson Valley, through towering redwood forests to the coast; the rain started around Boonville, a thin misty drizzle. The north coast of California gets a lot of rain, even in the summer months — that, and a perpetual shroud of fog. By the time I got to the village of Mendocino, the mixture of fog and rain was so heavy you could barely see the ocean lying beyond the headland.

The drive was a long one, better than five hours and a hundred and fifty miles, and I was pretty tired at the end of it. I had stopped twice, once in Santa Rosa for gas and once in Cloverdale for coffee and a sandwich, but the stops had not done much for me mentally or physically. My muscles were cramped, my back hurt, my shoulder hurt, I had a tension headache. And I was in a wicked frame of mind: wired up tight, with violence roiling just under the surface. I was a little afraid of myself, of what I might do when I finally came face to face with Carl Emerson. I could handle it all right if he didn’t make trouble, but if he provoked me in any way...

I quit thinking about that. If something was going to happen, let it happen. Worrying about losing control could make you do just that when you came up against it.

The village had been built on a rugged, tree-dotted headland overlooking the mouth of the Big River and the sea beyond. It was the kind of place people called quaint, more New England than California in style and attitude — Cape Cod cottages, weathered Gothic buildings and towers, narrow streets lined with art galleries, coffee houses, shops dispensing a variety of local craftwork. A town populated by artists and artisans, most of them young, most of them dropouts from big cities like San Francisco. Mendocino was the heart of California’s art renaissance, a haven for people who wanted a quieter, rural life-style without giving up a sense of culture and sophistication.

But the county wasn’t all a bucolic Utopia. Other kinds of dropouts had discovered it, too, back in the sixties; dope-dealing and marijuana-growing were two of its other thriving industries, and there were reputed to be training grounds for paramilitary and terrorist groups, right- and left-wing, in its more remote areas. Man builds and creates and lives in harmony with nature; man uses, tears down, turns beauty into ugliness, tranquillity into disorder. The age-old story, the biblical struggle between good and evil. A kind of Armageddon in microcosm, conducted in small daily skirmishes.

Armageddon for me, too, I thought. That was what I was here for, wasn’t it? To finish my own personal battle with a force of evil?

I parked near the Masonic Hall, an old frame building with a rooftop sculpture of Father Time braiding a woman’s hair, and dodged puddles and tourists with umbrellas until I found a shop that sold county topographical maps. I didn’t expect to find Seaview Ranch listed on it, but I thought that maybe there was a Seaview Road or Seaview Lane in the vicinity of the village. There wasn’t. So much for that idea.

Outside again, I hunted up a real estate office; if there was anybody who would know where Seaview Ranch was, it was a local realtor, particularly since the place had to have been on the market before Emerson bought it six months ago. The woman I talked to was in her fifties, smiling and cheerful despite the weather. I told her I was looking to buy a home in the area and that I’d heard a place called Seaview Ranch was up for sale. She was familiar with it, all right; without hesitation she said I was too late, that property had already been sold.

“That’s too bad,” I said. “Did you handle the transaction?”

“No, we didn’t. It was another agency, in Fort Bragg.”

“But you do know where Seaview Ranch is located?”

“Why, yes. I knew the former owner. I must say I was a bit disappointed that he didn’t register the property with us when he decided to—”

“Would you mind telling me how to get to it?”

“Well... may I ask why you want to know?”

“From what I was told,” I said, “it’s exactly the sort of place I’m looking for. I’d like to take a look at it — talk to the new owner, see if he might be willing to sell if the price is right.” I gave her a conspiratorial smile. “I’m pretty well off financially, so money is no object when I find something I want.”

“I see.” She hesitated, and then made a small shrug; it really didn’t matter much to her one way or another. “Well, I suppose in that case... Seaview Ranch is about seven miles south of here, between Little River and Albion. It has a private road that branches off the highway, toward the ocean; you can’t miss it because on one side there’s a creek and on the other there’s a hill with some rocks on it shaped like an arrow. The headland out there, where the ranch is, is called Arrow Point.”

I thanked her, went back to the car, and drove south out of the village on Highway One. It was the same way I’d come in, because Highway 128 intersects One just below Albion; I had to have passed the access road to Seaview Ranch earlier. It was after five o’clock now, with a couple of hours of daylight left, but the rain and the fog had turned the day dark, strewn it with shadows. I was forced to turn on the headlights because of the poor visibility.

The highway clung to the edge of the coastline, dipping and twisting across wooded ridges and creek mouths, around deep coves with sea-sculpted walls and jumbles of wave-tunneled rocks, all obscured by the misty drizzle. A mile and a half past the hamlet of Little River, the landmarks I was looking for appeared on my right: the creek first, choked with underbrush and spanned by a short bridge, and then the road and the hill beyond. The rocks up there didn’t look much like an arrow, but maybe that was because of the weather and the bad light: they had a way of distorting shapes, obliterating the contours of things.

I slowed and made the turn. There was a wooden gate closed across the road ahead, a sagging wood-and-wire fence stretching away on both sides. A sign on the gate said: Private Property — No Trespassing. I braked a few feet short of the gate, got out and went up to it. It was fastened by a wire ring looped over a short post; I unhooked the ring, shoved the gate open and swung it out of the way. The road, graveled, glistening with rain puddles in the headlight glare, curled to the left beyond and disappeared into the undulant wall of fog. Nothing else was visible except for a few trees and some craggy land studded with rocks, overgrown with bushes and coarse grass. The smell of the sea was sharp, brackish; I could hear the surf pounding away in the distance, muffled and rhythmic, a lonely sound.

When I got back into the car I took the .38 out of the glove compartment where I’d put it when I left San Francisco and laid it on the seat beside me. I could feel myself tightening up inside, little knots of pressure in my chest and groin. The tension and the contained anger made my mouth dry, the palms of my hands damp with sweat.

I switched off the headlights — if Emerson was here, I did not want him to know I was coming — and took the car through the open gateway. The road hooked around the edge of the hill, bent back to the right again past a stand of eucalyptus; the rest of the terrain stayed barren and rocky. I rolled down the window, driving at a crawl, so I could listen to the pound of the surf. It seemed closer now, a low booming pulse, as if the fog itself were a living thing.

More eucalyptus appeared ahead, and beyond them I could make out fuzzy clots of light and the vague shapes of buildings. The light meant he was here, all right. My right hand felt greasy as I eased the car up to where the trees were, stopped in their shadow, and shut the engine down.

With my fingers wrapped around the .38, I got out and moved forward along the edge of the road. The wind off the ocean was blustery, full of humming sighs and moans; it blew rain into my face, cold and stinging, like little pellets of ice. I paused alongside the last of the trees and wiped my eyes with my sleeve, squinting through the murkiness ahead.

The buildings were more distinct now, the nearest maybe seventy yards away on my right, across an open expanse of rumpled, grass-tufted ground. That one, weathered and gray and peak-roofed, had to be a barn; clustered near it were a couple of small outbuildings. Some distance removed to the left was the ranch house, an old-fashioned white frame structure, two-storied, sheltered by a half moon of wind-bent evergreens and eucalyptus. It was set at an angle so that it faced northwest, out toward the shoreline and the sea beyond. That was where the light was coming from: two windows in the front wall, one in the side wall facing me. A car, some sort of squarish compact, was drawn up near the porch.

I started across the open ground, angling toward the trees at the rear of the house. By the time I got there, I was wet and shivering. The back of the house was dark; I left the tree shadows and cut over to the near corner, moved along the side wall until I came to the lighted window. I put my back against the boards and craned my head forward to look through the rain-streaked glass. Front parlor, with the same Oriental motif as the Burlingame house; the Chinese furniture and rugs and tapestries looked incongruous in that Victorian room, out here in the middle of nowhere. The portion of the parlor that was visible appeared empty. I ducked under the window, flattened out on the other side, and took a look at the inner half.

A man was sitting half sprawled on a brocade couch near the fireplace, with his head lolling forward on his chest. He looked drunk; on the black-lacquered table in front of him was a nearly empty bottle of bourbon and an empty glass. But he wasn’t Carl Emerson. I could see enough of his face to tell that, and to identify him.

Orin Tedescu.

I was past the point of being surprised by much of anything. I said, “Damn,” under my breath, and went around to the front, up the stairs and onto the porch. When I turned the knob the door opened inward with a faint creaking sound. I shoved it wide, so I could see what lay within: a wide foyer, doorway to the parlor on the left, staircase at the rear flanked by a central hall, and another doorway on the right that opened into a darkened dining room. The only sounds came from outside — the crashing of surf, the steady drum of the rain.

I went in after a dozen seconds, eased the door shut, and stepped through into the parlor. Tedescu was still sitting in the same position, slack-mouthed, breathing through his nose in little snores that were inaudible until I got up close to him. His hair was damp, plastered down on his skull, as if he’d spent some time out in the rain; his shirt and trouser legs were also damp. And so was a tweed overcoat tossed over the arm of a nearby chair. The smell of liquor, mingled with that of wet fabric, came off him in waves. I poked him once with the muzzle of the .38, but he didn’t respond. The way it looked, he had drunk himself into a stupor.

At the rear of the room was a closed door; I opened it and looked into an empty sitting room that had been turned into a study. I came back through the parlor, went across into the dining room and then into a kitchen at the rear. Empty. So were a screened rear porch, a big antiquated larder, and a bathroom with a wooden tank-type toilet.

I climbed the stairs to the second floor, taking it slow, holding the gun at arm’s length. Three bedrooms, an upstairs sitting room, and another bathroom — all of them deserted. One of the bedrooms had an open suitcase on a rack, and the bed had been slept in. Emerson’s suitcase, probably, which would mean that he’d spent the night here. But where was he now? And what the hell was Tedescu doing here?

Downstairs again, back into the parlor. Tedescu still hadn’t moved. I put the .38 in my pocket, got a handful of his shirtfront, and shook him a couple of times. He grunted, made a feeble protesting gesture with one hand. I slapped him across the face, forehand and backhand, not being gentle about it. His head wobbled bonelessly, but his eyes stayed shut.

“Tedescu,” I said, “wake up. Wake up!”

He muttered something, made a gagging noise as if he were going to vomit on himself. When I slapped him another time, his eyelids fluttered and finally popped up like window shades; he stirred and sat up. It took him a couple of seconds to get his eyes focused on me. They were blank at first, heavily bloodshot; then recognition, vague and fuddled, seeped into them. His mouth worked, but all that came out of it was spittle.

I sat on my heels in front of him. “Where’s Emerson?”

Tedescu’s lips twisted; he pawed at them with a shaky hand. Anguish, and maybe fear, glistened in his eyes. “Carl,” he said in a thick slurred voice. “Jesus...”

“Where is he?”

“Gone,” he said.

“Gone where?”

“Gone to hell, all gone to hell.” He struggled forward, reaching for the bottle on the table, and managed to knock over an ashtray full of the stubs of his little cigars. I moved the bottle away from him, put it on the floor. “No,” he said, “gimme that...”

“Listen to me, Tedescu. Where did Emerson go?”

He threw his arm up in a vague gesture. “Out there. Ran out... crazy... went berserk...”

“Then what? Did he drive off?”

“No. Crazy...”

“You mean he’s still around here somewhere?”

“Had that gun,” Tedescu said. “Said he was gonna kill me, tried to... oh God!”

Whatever had happened, it was too much for him to cope with; it had driven him into alcoholic oblivion in the first place, and that was where he wanted to stay. After a couple of seconds his eyes rolled up in their sockets, the lids came down, and he flopped over on the couch, pulled his legs up, and sprawled onto his stomach. His breathing, harsh at first, settled into the faint snore. He was gone again.

I let him lie there. It would take time to bring him around enough so he could talk sense, and if Emerson was still here somewhere, maybe crazed and toting a gun, I had no time to waste. I hauled the .38 out and hurried back into the rain.

The yard area, as much of it as I could see, was stark and empty in the failing light. A worn path led away through the grass to the left, probably out to the end of the headland; but the shoreline and the sea beyond were invisible from here, lost in the drizzly mist. The ocean could not have been far away, though: I could hear the angry crash of waves breaking against rock.

I moved past the parked compact, across to where the barn loomed gray and spectral like something out of a Gothic movie. The ground in front was muddy, and there were rain-filled ruts in it leading up to the closed double doors. I slogged through the mud, pulled one of the door halves open. Inside, parked on the dusty wooden floor, was a new Lincoln Continental. Emerson’s car, I thought; he must have driven it in here to get it out of the rain. And it had to mean he was still in the vicinity. It didn’t make sense that he would have left the ranch on foot, in weather like this, when he could have driven instead.

Warily, I stepped inside. The barn smelled of dust and dampness and dry rot; no animals had been housed in it for a long time. Shadows clung to the rafters, to a barren hayloft at the far end, to a workbench tacked onto the side wall. There was not much else in there except for cobwebs and some discarded pieces of furniture stacked near the bench. There wasn’t anything to hear, either.

I opened the driver’s door on the Continental. The dome light went on, letting me see that both the front and back seats were empty. I left the door open, because the light cut away some of the gloom, and moved toward the rear. But he wasn’t back there, and he wasn’t up in the loft; I climbed partway up the ladder to make sure.

Outside again, I crossed to the nearest of the outbuildings. Woodshed, filled with firewood and nothing else. The second structure, larger, more ramshackle, was a storage shed: wheelbarrow, a few rusting tools, a big steamer trunk. On impulse I opened the trunk. It was as empty as the rest of the shed.

Where is he? I thought.

Where the hell did he go?

I backed out of the shed, scanned the terrain again. No other buildings were visible; there wasn’t anything except rock and grass and the few trees. Unless the path led to some sort of structure out at the edge of the headland... a boat house? That didn’t seem likely. The coastline was rugged along here, and the winter storms that assaulted it were sometimes violent; a boat house that was not built out of concrete and anchored to the rock wouldn’t last long against the onslaught of those hammering waves. But I was running out of places to look. And the path had to lead somewhere or it wouldn’t be there.

The wind, gusting now, lashed me with icy rain that stung my eyes and blurred my vision; I had to keep wiping it away in order to see where I was going. My face was beginning to numb, and I had no feeling at all in the fingers of my left hand. I put my right hand into my coat pocket to keep it warm and the gun from getting too wet.

The ground began to slope downward, gradually, and the path angled between boulder-sized rocks and clumps of sawgrass. The thunder of the surf grew louder, until it seemed to be right in front of me. Then, through parting ribbons of fog, I could see the edge of the cliff ahead. The path went right up to it, over it, and out of sight.

When I got to where I could see beyond the edge I was looking down a steep incline to a jagged mass of rocks a good seventy feet below. The surf boiled over them, faintly luminescent — a wild, eerie sight that seemed to appear and disappear, phantomlike, in the mist. The path led all the way to the bottom, with rough steps cut into it at intervals. But not to any boat house. At low tide, there would probably be a slice of beach down there; now, the waves covered it, foaming partway up the cliffside. I could taste the salt spray they hurled up into the air when they broke.

I moved to my left, keeping well back from the edge. The rim of the headland bellied outward a few yards away; the incline straightened into a vertical rock wall. I retraced my steps, went across the path in the opposite direction. The terrain made a sharp inward turn over there. It extended back thirty or forty yards, then hooked outward again the same distance so that it formed a U-shaped cut maybe twenty yards wide. Below, the sea had fashioned a tiny cove halfway into the cut; the inner half was a sloping pile of eroded rock.

I started around the inner lip of the U. And then stopped abruptly, because the mist parted again and I could see something down on those rocks, something blue billowing in the wind. I moved closer to the edge, pawing wetness out of my eyes, and knelt there on the muddy turf, hunched forward, peering down.

The blue thing was a jacket. And there was a man inside it, a man lying bent and twisted, caught between two of the rocks. The wind billowed his hair too, made it look like blond tendrils reaching up into the mist from the top of his shattered skull.

Jesus, I thought. Sweet Jesus.

I had finally found Carl Emerson.